


Dusty rooms you cannot sweep

by evil_whimsey



Category: xxxHoLic
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-12
Updated: 2010-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-13 15:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_whimsey/pseuds/evil_whimsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, on rare days like this, he thinks maybe.  Just maybe, this could be a life.<br/>(Snapshots of xxxHolic Rou, Doumeki POV.  From a music prompt challenge on LJ:  Sad Brad Smith, "Help Yourself")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dusty rooms you cannot sweep

The doors are open from the engawa, warm spring breeze sighing through, tumbling blossoms across the threshold, past Watanuki and his resting shadow stretched out from the porch column where he's propped, gazing off toward the yard, into nothing in particular.

Maru carries the tea tray out, while Moro dances a hopscotch between the blossoms on the porch, hitching up her flowered yukata to the ankles, and Mokona tries to join the dance, but ends up rolling into the folds of Watanuki's mending, trailed across his lap; some unassuming white cotton with frayed sachiko embroidery today.

This is how Doumeki finds them, when he crosses the yard late in the afternoon, grocery bags bundled in one arm, black briefcase dangling from the other; Watanuki sipping tea, faint secret amusement tucked into the corner of one eye, the barely-twitching crease of his mouth, with the mending pooling down from his lap and a lone pink blossom caught in his wind-fluffed hair.

Doumeki pauses in the shade of the house, breathing spring and soaking up the peace before Watanuki catches him sneaking in from the side again.

Sometimes, on rare days like this, he thinks maybe. Just maybe, this could be a life.

 

**

 

Mokona doesn't say what this week's customer wanted, but whatever it was it must not have been good for them. For days, Watanuki is haunted and furious, scowling at everything and puffing away on that pipe, to the point that everyone goes around cracking open doors and windows throughout the shop, in spite of the rain pouring down ceaselessly outside, and Watanuki's periodic tirades about the miserable damp.

On Wednesday Doumeki gets a phone call, and tells the truth: this is a not a good week. He's learned how to spot them. On Thursday he makes a different phone call, and on Friday he brings an express mail package of unspectacular, somewhat dry sugar cookies, and Kohane, to the shop.

Watanuki serves him the gyoza that sat in the pan until they were scorched and crunchy around the edges and rations the beer down to a trickle, but by the time Himawari's cookies come out, and Kohane has taken over the grill, the rain has finally stopped and the evening air smells clear and clean.

Mokona surreptitiously refills their beer glasses under the table, while Doumeki keeps one eye on Watanuki, munching slowly on his crumbly dry cookie, the fretful tension in his eyes unspooling bit by bit, to something softer.

 

**

 

Watanuki shouldn't be up; it's past three in the morning, and besides that he's wrapped in bandages from the elbows of both arms up to his throat. But when Doumeki tracks down the rustling that had woken him to its source, he finds Watanuki in the front entry, standing in a bluish patch of moonlight. Leaning heavily on a broom, staring at the floor with the face of graveyard angel; sorrow carved in stone, for all eternity.

This isn't the time to criticize the futility of sweeping an already-clean floor, in the dark, at some ungodly hour. It's doubtful there's anything Doumeki can say at this point, that won't crack the person standing there into pieces. All he can do is walk over quietly, ease the broom from Watanuki's grip, slipping in to support his weight.

Watanuki's hand transfers to his wrist, clutching tight enough to make the bones ache, but his eyes are still so lost that Doumeki doubts he even realizes it. When he moves back toward the hallway, toward Watanuki's bedroom, Watanuki doesn't balk. Doumeki understands too well what that feels like, being too tired to fight. He could wish they had learned it years before, with each other. He could wish Watanuki had never learned it at all. But no wish regarding Watanuki will ever be within Doumeki's means to afford. He's known better, for a very long time.

 

**


End file.
